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Getting up that morning was the most stressful and difficult morning for me. Not wanting to go to this funeral, but this was my great grandmother we’re talking about. Finding all black clothing to put on was sad to me. Sitting in the car thinking about her, but everything wasn’t clicking, everything was a blur to me still. Seeing you laying in your casket tears my inside apart, tears run down my face nonstop. Seeing my grandpa, and uncle on their knees crying in front of their mother was the most depressing thing to ever witness. “I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry for putting through so much as a kid” as my grandpa said in front her mother on his knees. “Addison…” my mother called me “everything will be ok.” Looking at her with tears running down her face makes me want to cry even more. But knowing that my great grandmother is gone, I know that there’s 1 less angel in my life. Knowing that the lady who took care of me as a small child is no longer here but up there. As I stepped up towards her casket, flashback started to race across my mind, memories that I had with her began to all come back to me. Eventually, I dropped to my knees, cried and pray that she’ll come back. But it would be selfish for me to keep her here, just to make myself happy. “Please, please take good care of her” as I mumble beneath my breathe. I got up off my knees and I walked towards my seat as my uncle guided me. As people got up and say what they got to say to her, each one of them got onto their knees and cried. Seeing all these people that crying really showed me and my family how many people cared about my great grandmother. As they were about to close the casket, everybody stormed towards her and tears began to gush out of people eyes. “Mom, mom! Noooo…” As my grandpa and uncle cried. “Watch your hands,” as one man told everyone before shutting the casket. Everyone gather around the casket putting their hands on top of it, as the two men struggle to carry it out. People gather around the outside of the funeral home because of the loud band that plays as we carried the casket to the hearse. It took forever for us to get the cemetery. But as we drove into the cemetery there was bands playing songs. As I got out of the van, I saw a deep hole where the my great grandma is going to go. “Well this is the last time where we can actually be close to her” my cousin said. I looked up into the sky knowing that she’s back with her husband and she now looking over us. As the casket was being lower into the ground, all I wish for was for my family and friends to know that it has been a good life for my great grandmother.

This essay was written as a way of getting many things off of my chest. Especially a very important memory that I hold deep in my heart. writing this essay was extremely relieving as it allowed me to remember something I haven’t thought of in a long time. I am proud to share this memory and writing as I am extremely afraid of sharing these types of things. I do need to work on my description of things, as well as adding more life into my writing.

“My leg hurts…” I cried to myself as I sat on my bed in a medical room. The room was extremely clean, with glossy white walls and floor, as well as white everything. The only things keeping the room from being completely white was the small decorations of random Brazilian cartoon characters that littered the room. I was in pain. The slightest movement I made caused my body to feel like millions of needles covered in alcohol were slowly piercing through my body. I had suffered an infection in the thigh bone of my left leg and would be having a surgery soon. A serious surgery. Surgeries scared me. I’ve heard stories from cousins that had experienced it before, and they were not pleasant. I was tired. My body felt weak, fragile and vulnerable as if a rogue gust of wind would blow me off my bed and slam me against the wall. I have been in this hospital for about two weeks now and I just want to go home and play with cousins.

Other than me, there was also another boy that occupied the same room. I never knew his name, or rather I never bothered to ask. I just knew that he was also going to be treated for something serious. Just like me. The boy was the same age as me. Eight. His skin color was lighter and his hair was shorter. His eyes showed signs of happiness even though he had been there longer than me. He slept a lot. He would always be taken away from the medical room and brought back. He was always tired. “Can I play with your toys?” He would ask me every time, and being the selfish brat I was, I would always reject it. Living in a house with over eight cousins, and having everything I shared with them go missing, I couldn’t trust anyone. He was always lonely. His family never came to visit, and despite that there was always happiness and hope in his eyes. He had made many attempts at talking to me, and even though sometimes I talked back, I never considered him my friend. Even though I was extremely bored with my toys, deep inside, that boredom was quickly taken away by his presence every time.

One evening, both me and the boy had to leave the medical room. I was being taken away because I had to go through surgery, however, I didn’t know what the reason behind his departure was. I was injected with something which caused me to black out and sleep. After going through the process of surgery I was taken back to my white room. I was the first to be taken back, therefore, I began to play with my toys with an uninterested look on my face, almost looking like I was forcing myself to play with it. In all truth, I was. I was waiting for the boy to return and tell me about his day or how much he wished to explore the world. I received Silence. Hours went by and nothing. The boy never returned. The nurse never told me what happened to him either as she would always tell me to rest. At this moment I looked at my toys with hatred. I was alone. I had realized that without the presence of the boy, the toys were useless. The white room was quiet. From inside I could hear the steps of every nurse in the hall echo through the world. I could hear the engine of every car going by the hospital. But sadly I couldn’t hear the boy.

Reflecting on this today, allows me to understand how mistaken I was. A friend with such a pure heart and honest mind like so should be treasured. They are extremely difficult to come by. I was ignorant to not allow someone like him experience better days than staying in that hospital watching some other kid playing with his toy. Although I am still the same cautious person I was back then, I am more aware of my surroundings and of those who are honest and deserving of my friendship. Inanimate objects can only get you so far, as far as happiness goes. However, a true friendship can last a lifetime. I will often wonder where the boy is or if he is even alive. But my life moves on. As he slowly leaves my mind.

“Here. Set an alarm in my phone for next year at this exact same time. Then I’ll tell you what it means.” I grabbed her phone and found my way across a sea of useless applications until I found the one worth finding at that time. I configured an alarm for July 25, 2011, 3:47 pm.  This would be the only way I could ever try and figure out why they decided on this. Fast forward a year later. I run outside to help my mother and father with groceries from the car. My bigger feet and slightly longer legs graze the top of the pavement, down the steps and towards the car. My extensively longer hair bounced as every step I took sent a shockwave to my chubby face. I proceed to grab a bunch of bags from my mom’s car, avoiding my dad to grab me in the process. At that time, my mom’s phone started buzzing in her pocket. “A call?”, she murmured to herself. She slowly pulled out her phone and moved her extremely long hair to the side of her face. I proceed to run up the stairs when I hear a call from my mom to come over. I dashed to her side and look up at her smiling face. She then holds her phone out in front of me with the alarm going off. “Do you want to know now? Why you have such a ‘weird name’?”
As the excitement rushed to my limbs, I started to flail about the sidewalk and up the stairs, into my house. My mind configures a massive number of questions to ask, as the mystery behind my name is slowly revealed, piece by piece. “What does it mean?” “Why did you decide to call me this?” “Dad had the same name too, right? Why name me after him?” In all of the names that are so common to the human race, why make a name that causes someone like me to stand out? For someone who doesn’t stand out? It like the name drags me on a stage with a gathering of people watching me. Confused about what I say. And I don’t say a thing.

“Men-doo… Men…” My teacher struggled to form the vast array of syllables and pronunciations that she has never encountered before. Her mouth contorted in strange ways as she failed to enunciate the 7th name down on the attendance sheet. She leaned towards me and points at a name that is very noticeable on the vast array of names in her hand. “How do you pronounce this?”, she said with a nervous smile. “Menduyarka”, I said, enunciating every syllable slowly so she could understand what I was trying to say. She repeated what I told her out loud, half-heartedly. I don’t remember if she even pronounced it correctly, but she did say it oddly enough to gain the attention of the classmates around me. Every time I roamed the halls, I would hear people mispronounce my name. Most of the time, it’s unintentional. Other times were just to make jokes. Variations were developed to make saying my name easier as every year went by on the calendar. From “Menduyarka” to “Mendy/Mendi”, to “Mancake”, to “Man-Arctica”. These variations evolved over the years from adorable, childish nicknames, to names with some strangely odd definitions on Urban Dictionary. As the years went on, and I developed into a teen boy, I decided to hide something about me that would only make things progress a little bit slower. “Menduyarka” became hidden under the facade I used. “Samuel” is what I became known by after “Man-Arctica” became very annoying to hear. I can totally describe it as a “handful of consonants and vowels that were pulled from a Scrabble bag.” “Menduyarka” became a part of my life when my dad was named the same thing when he was born. My grandmother came up with the name way before he was born, so it WAS planned. I have no fucking clue where it comes from, but after searching on the internet, I figured out it “wasn’t common in the U.S.” I’m technically not a junior because “Menduyarka” and “Samuel” are switched in the name positionings we have. He’s “Samuel Menduyarka”, and I’m the opposite. Every encounter with someone was like rolling a dice. There was truly a ⅙ chance of someone pronouncing my name right when it came down to it.

This paper has been a great opportunity for me to explore my parents divorce and what affect it had on me as a child and now as a teenager. I didn’t realize until now the depth that this went in to and I’m glad I did. Having divorced parents has made my life so much different from if they had stayed together.

The bell rang like angels in my ear telling me I could come home after a long day at school. However, the angels were quickly shot down by the demon known as Ms. Kolansky who told us to stay in our seats so we could tell her what we learned that day. We were all so ready to leave that we could hardly remember the day we just had. I looked at the numbered circle on the wall like it was a ticking time bomb, like my dad was going to leave me if I didn’t come out into the schoolyard on time. I hadn’t seen him in a week and it was my first one-on-one day with him since my parents split.

Ms. Kolansky dismissed us after my friend Zoe told her that we learned about what palindromes were. I ran out of the room like it was on fire. My bag was only on one shoulder and my hair was like a horse’s mane behind me. I pushed through the heavy blue doors at 3:12 and scanned the schoolyard which was filled to the brim with small children running after each other and parents talking about how they should get together some time. My dad stood out in the corner being the tallest guy around with his aviator sunglasses and balding head. He raised his hand to confirm that it was him and he waved me over. I sprinted in my rainbow knee high socks and black converse to him and hugged him. He smelled like cigarettes and his work uniform felt like a cat’s tongue but I never felt cozier. He hugged me and asked about my day, I told him it was good. He handed me a canvas bag, I looked inside and there was an empty notebook. He told me it was for my art. He knew me well.

He took me to a restaurant that I’ve always loved and I ordered the mac and cheese and he stole a few pieces of my edamame. This was good, it felt normal. Like it used to be. I had been handling the divorce pretty well but that’s because I didn’t really understand what was going on. All I knew at that point was that dad wasn’t living with us anymore, and it sucked. I missed the feeling of him belonging in that house. So we finished eating lunch/dinner at around five o’clock and we started heading back home. A few minutes later I was walking through the brown door that mom thought was green. Dad followed me in and we sat on the rough red couch but we still had an hour left before it was time for our one-on-one to be over. He asked what I wanted to do and I told him I didn’t know, we decided to play a board game. I pulled out Othello from the plywood cabinets that my mom had fixed up when we first moved in. They scraped the back of my hand and fingers as I pulled out the cardboard box. I walked barefoot on the hardwood floor around mom’s dining room table onto the brown carpet with different sized red and orange dots. We sat there for an hour, going from playing board games to drawing to talking. It felt awkward, like we weren’t supposed to be there. Even though it was my home and my dad had lived there my whole life he seemed on edge and things were quiet.

My mom came home at 6:00 as planned, and the look on her face was confusing to me. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether she was confused or startled. She said hi to me and told me to go up to my room. I hugged dad and ran up the open steps, clinging to the railing mom had made out of iron pipes from work. I ran once I got half way up right into my room which was right at the top of the stairs. I grabbed for the lock on my sliding door and pulled it so that I could still hear the conversation my parents were having. They were yelling at each other again about how dad can’t be here anymore. I ran to the back of my room and grabbed my notebook. I picked up my pen and started to draw what I was feeling, salty water shared the page with the ink. That night I cried until there were no tears left and there were no more pages in my notebook. That night drawing was my security and comfort. It has been ever since.

This essay was an writing experienced I enjoyed, the freedom and lack of creative boundaries made the process interesting and introspective. The goals of this paper were to find a deeper meaning in the roots of my brother’s adoption, there are a lot of family dynamic issues I am currently struggling with and I thought if I explored areas of our past I could try to understand and solve them. I also really wanted to practice recounting memories and using interesting descriptive language to paint a picture for the audience. I am really proud of some of my imagery and the structure of my piece, this step by step story style is one I enjoy writing in. It is like a film where the character is learning the same information at the same time as the viewer. Some areas of improvement are my more personal parts, the analytical side felt a little thin in earlier drafts and I want to work exploring this emotional side of me in my writing. I tend to feel a lot of things but I find it hard to solidify them into words on a page.

I was an only child for five years. I do not have a lot of memories from this time, but I do remember the moment I was first introduced to my younger brother. My mother entered our living room, while I was toying with the velcro on my shoes as I watched an endless television marathon of PBS kids. She was holding scraps of paperwork in her arms, her hair was awry with a few strands reaching towards our ceiling. She pulled herself down to my level and extended her right hand, a polaroid sat before me with a picture of a small hispanic baby. He sat in a makeshift tub made from a red plastic bucket, he was in a concrete room with a small window behind him revealing a guatemalan sky, the stars were brighter there.

“Who’s that baby?” I asked, sucking on the collar of my shirt. “He’s your baby brother.” My mother replied, a distinct gleam of joy in her tired eyes.

The following weeks consisted of me being a bystander to the adoption process. My parents sat up all night at the dining room table, papers in heaps around them, covering every square inch of our ikea catalog furniture. I lay on our on the splintery floorboards and observing my father rub his sunburned neck as he read document after document. I watched as he flipped a cigarette between his fingers and tried to count the number of furrows in his brow. At school I would sit on the rusted climber with my group of friends swinging my legs and speaking about how even if he wasn’t born from where I was born he was still my brother. One of the boys said,

“That’s messed up. That’s like calling your dog your mom.”

I then replied, “but Bradley, isn’t your mom your dog?” We didn’t speak for the rest of elementary school. There was this air of aggression and confusion that followed adoption, many people assume it has to do with conception issues and would often grow uncomfortable at this implication. There was a strange confidence I held throughout though, I knew he was my brother even before I met him. It didn’t matter that I was only five, I felt a kinship with this boy. I probably received this strength from my parents who wanted to adopt since they married. They spent all their lives researching and finding the most effective means of raising an adopted child, the found the Guatemalan adoption system the easiest to maneuver and then they found the boy in the polaroid.

After a year or so, my parents began traveling across the world to visit the boy. I stayed with the neighbors and their son. I slept next to his dirty basketball gear and ate clam chowder every night for two weeks. I would call my parents on their landline every other night and ask about Guatemala and what the planes were like, but I could only speak for five minutes because it cost too much money. Every time the kitchen timer would signal the end of the call I would panic and cry.

Finally, after a month since parents returned I was able to travel back with my mother to bring the boy back to our home. I wore my favorite wool hat, with a plastic spiderman logo stitched onto the front. I would run my tiny fingers over it as I gaped at the towering glass walls of the airport terminal. I remember gripping onto the elastic waistband of my Target jeans to stop them falling as we sprinted to catch our flight. The plane was cramped with many people yelling in Spanish, as my mother checked her watch and bopped her knee I sat calmly watching us leave the ground from the window. My mother smiled at me as she placed a Kodak film cartridge in my father’s Super 8 camera and proceeded to film me silhouetted by the passing clouds.

We left the airport. This was my first experience away from the first world, I had only seen a life of duplexes and skyscrapers and was unprepared for the aesthetic of an impoverished nation. There were slums lining the craggy road made of tin roofing and dried mud, the nicer homes were cinderblock shelters housing families of eight or twelve. I saw pregnant thirteen year olds and old men dusted with red dirt, you could see streaks of clear cheek paved by tears of irritation. I was filled with a sadness and guilt that followed these images, I felt scared and bad because of it. I had never seen such living conditions, but I am glad I have so I can appreciate the present.

After an hours drive we entered the city known as Antigua. My mother filmed with my father’s camera, she captured grainy images of thousand year old architecture painted with stone colored pigeons. She captured young children in bright handmade clothes silently dancing to the ticks and flaws of the film strip.

We then entered the apartment of the boy’s caretaker. The caretaker’s name was Hilda and she had golden teeth, she was the tallest woman I had ever seen because her knees reached my spiderman hat. She picked the boy from his crib and handed him to my mother, then we walked from the doors and boarded the next flight back to Philadelphia. As we sat in the blue leather seats of the American Airline’s plane, I stroked the bridge of his coffee nose and leaving in the middle of the guatemalan night. And when I looked into Toby’s shimmering eyes I realized the stars were brighter there.

Adoption is a choice a family makes, it brings many feelings into one’s household. Toby is a proud member of our family but there have been times where others have felt strongly against his relation to us, even he has struggled with his grasp of heritage. Personally, I will love Toby until I pass because he is my brother. I have watched him switch from velcro to lases, I have seen him sled for the first time using a trashcan lid, and I have seem him dance to Ray Charles in pajamas and my father’s suit jacket. I know that our family is unconventional, but it is a family nonetheless.

Introduction:

I wrote this essay with the theme family in my head. Recently, my family has had to overcome a lot of challenges, and I thought about the good things, memories, and souvenirs I have from just being around my family, and the many more memories to come. I hope that when people read my essay, they are reminded of some of the good times they’ve had with their families, and how important it is to stay united as a family.

Essay:

People are born into this world with no accountabilities, no responsibilities, fresh and new. No ties to anything- wait. That’s not true. We are born with only one tie, the tie that gave us life. Everything and everyone that is born knows this tie, and it is ultimately up to the person, or fate whether they want to keep it connected, make it stronger, or sever it completely. This tie, would be more familiarly known as just a 6 letter word: family. My mom was the first person I ever saw in my life, and from the moment I saw her, the connection, the bond that was made is still to this day indestructible. After I met my mom, I met my sister, who is 3 years older than me, and to this day I cling to her more than anybody else. Since day 1, my mom has taught, and still is teaching me the meaning of family It’s crazy, let’s not deny, when you’re a 17 year old teenager in her junior year of high school, who also has a job & does extracurricular activities, you don’t get much family time. My older sister and I have both been busy off trying to work to start our lives. That’s how it’s been for quite some time ever since we started getting older. However, we always found a way to be a family. That’s something I’ve always admired about us. The 3 of us have always managed to stay a united front, and I’ve learned so much about love, family, and just being a good person from this connection that started when I had only been on earth for a matter of seconds. Family vacations mean the world to me. I love them so much. Just getting away with the people you live with, is not only relaxing and refreshing, but it gave me a chance to experience new things, and learn about different cultures with my family. From a young age, I was exposed to many cultures, food, behaviors, and I keep all of these life lessons with me today. My mom taught my sister and me how to behave when in a restaurant, to be polite & courteous to people, and to mind your manners at all times. I remember the first time we ever took a really big trip was our first trip to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. “Naihema and Zahirah! Let’s go, the cab is outside! Let’s go!” was the scream I woke up to at 9:00p.m one July night: the night of our trip. We had tickets on a midnight train to Providence, RI. We were going to be on the train all night, and by 12:00p.m the next afternoon, we had taken 3 shuttle buses and were in my grandpa’s car on our way to our hotel on the beach. The car ride was humid, with the familiar salty breeze that blows from all beach towns. It was sunny and the road was clear as we zoomed to our destination. I remember I felt my heart jump, and a warm feeling spread throughout my whole body. It was the first time I’d been here, seeing the wonders of this place had me entranced, and I felt greedy because I wanted to just hold it all in. We spent 4 days there, and in those four days, I was the happiest I had ever been in my life. I spent those four days talking to my family, laughing, and having fun. I was so young then, but I knew as soon as I left, that Massachusetts had an effect on all of us, and we left that place with more understanding of the world, and of each other. “Ohana means family, and family means nobody gets left behind.” When I was younger, my sister and I loved Lilo & Stitch, and we had that quote hung on our wall in the room we used to share. I feel as though my family’s home life was some of the most influential time in my life. I looked up to my sister as though she walked on water, and my mom as if she actually was magic. I wanted to be just like them. As a family there are millions of memories of afternoons spent being lazy lying down spread across the living room watching movies on Saturday mornings, eating Sunday dinners at the dining room table, discussing our week, and smaller things, like just sitting with my mom at the dining room table creating art. The stained glass models that hang in my living room window, are all a part of me and my family’s history. They symbolize infinite memories of childhood curiosity, and creativity. My mom loves arts & crafts. Out of the 3 of us, she’s the artistic one. Every so often I would hear her call out “Naihema, Zahirah, let’s go to Michael’s and get some kits!” From a young age, we would spend hours together as a family, either sitting at a table, or the living room floor, watching a movie and doing arts & crafts. The room would be filled with laughter, happiness, and love all around. Every time we finished a new glass, my mom would set it out to dry, and we would swap out the ones in the window, and every time they symbolized a new memory.

Introduction:

This essay starts with my drawing of Wu Zetian, then it leads off to 婴儿塔(baby tower). In this essay, I discussed about about Wu Zetian, what she did, some discriminations women faces, and such. Like slaughter millions of cute little babies just because they are female. My goal of writing this essay is to reflect on what is the reason why women often got discriminated against, and the society still view it as normal. As for improvement, I need to improve on my grammar, go straight to the point, and stop repeating some stuff.

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Another afternoon, another day. Rays of mischievous sunlight had managed to escape from the curtain, casting warm yellow hues. I sat on my desk, pencils in my hand, my imagination dances freely. On the paper is my interpretation of Wu Zetian. She is standing up in a red and gold Tang dynasty dress, coming out of a fog shaded with light red and gold, fading away. She is holding her arms out shoulder height, to the left and the right, as if she is embracing the sky, the world, feeling the wind blowing against her, tasting the unfamiliar taste of freedom. Her long gold sleeves drapes down from her arm, almost to the floor, but the bottom curves, and covers all of her forearm. In the center of the sleeves, is another strip of sheer red silk, a little wider than a palm, that flows all the way down.

Imagine a kimono. A kimono with gold and red highlights. As a matter of fact, kimonos come from China(Han dynasty clothes, Tang dynasty clothes, and Wu clothes). The top is just like a kimono, with the crossing collar. Except in this case, it’s more revealing and bold. The crossing of the collars happens at the waist, where the wide waist belt is located. Under the first golden layer is a small red layer, and underneath that, is a strip of wide fabric across her chest in the color red. Then we have the red waist belt. The dress itself is of a gold a shade darker than the rest, going all the way down and fading. In the middle of the dress, taken up about a third of space is a bright red strip of fabric, also going all the way down and fading.

A woman in gold, a color only the emperors can wear, for the first time ever in history, astonishing.

It’s almost as if it’s the ghost of Wu Zetian, standing there, holding her arms out, looking down at the world from a tall tall tower.

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Another day, another afternoon. I stares at the drawing of Wu Zetian that I had hang up. “But why did I draw her?” I asked myself.

Taking a trip down the road of memories, many memories swipe by. The picture is of Wu Zetian, the first and only empress in power with a title, in the long five thousand years of Chinese history. The most powerful women in the history of China.

She is a tyrant, some said. She gave women more rights at the time, and busted the economy, others said. But to me, I don’t care if she is cruel or not, she got it done, she did what she, and many Chinese women want to do. She gave women a life more free than before, a life where they are not caged birds, a life where they don’t have to follow the ridiculous rules setted up by men, a life where they are setted free. Even though it didn’t last.

Wu Zetian rose to power and stay in power until her death, in this world dominated by the males, and granted women more freedoms. Even though it didn’t last long. Women were basically slaves before that time. But she did it. She did it. She unlocked the cage and give women freedom for as long as she can.

So I drew her, holding her arms out, as I imagine how she would, embracing the sky, and looking down at the pitiful world. A fog of golden dragon and blood behind her.

The male dominated world, now ruled by a female. Domineering.

But next to her, on the left, is another drawing of a girl in a green and pink Qi Pao. Submissive looking. Ironic, yet contrasting. Traditional and submissive lady, innovative and ambitious empress, side by side. Funny.

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Again, another day. That day, I was reading an ebook as usual, then an unfamiliar word pop into my view. What? 婴儿塔? Baby tower? Tower for baby? What? Why? I asked myself.

So I open up a new tab, as what I tend to do. I copy and pasted the word, and hit enter. Wait, what? 福州(Fuzhou)? Isn’t that the city where I came from? I clicked it open, not knowing what I should be expecting. First thing that pop into my view was a old black and white picture. In the picture, there is a tower, it looks like the traditional Daoism tower, except it look shorter and stubbier. Creepier.

Okay, okay, let’s keep on reading, “A photograph taken by an english female photographer in the late 19th century?” okay? But what is the tower for? “It is normally half a meter tall,” Oh, that’s tiny, it is like a doll house? “Baby tower, is use for the babies who are about to be drowned. ” Wait a second, what? Okay, just keep going, it’s getting more and more creepy. “During Qing dynasty, it was peaceful. The population starts to increase rapidly. Drowning babies become the trend. Millions of female babies are slaughtered. The gender ratio become really unbalanced. ” Wait, wait, wait, so you’re telling me, people start mass murdering female babies in 1890s already? Before the one child law was even a thing? “Local people starts to build a kind of tower, called baby tower, on the countryside. Instead of drowning their own babies, people starts to put their babies in the tower, and let the babies die on their own. They think it’s better in that way, and they would feel better. Then more and more people starts to following the examples.” So, tell me, how could you kill your own babies in a different way and feel better? How? “Of those babies killed, most of them are females.” Off course, off course, it’s the females. Off course. (source: http://fj.people.com.cn/fuzhou/n/2015/0430/c354243-24690512.html)

Do Chinese really hate to have daughters that much? Thinking about that made chills go down my spine. My body, shaking. Why? Why? I forced myself a bitter smile, yeah, right, traditionally, females are lower than males. Since, supposedly, a daughter would be married off one day and become someone else’s possession, so daughters are useless. Why would they want something they considered useless?

Chills, shakings. In my head, I am see babies, crying, lying on a pile of bloody bones and rotten flashes, slowly, slowly, their chest stopped moving. Why would you give birth to them, then just slaughter them? Why? Why females? Chills, more chills, shaking. Why do people always have to put females into the lower class than males. Why?! These kind of stuff even happens today, just instead of leaving the female babies in the baby tower to die, they would left the female babies in a house, in which they will be bring to an orphanage.

Coldness. Why is it, when men do some things, it’s okay, even worth praising or bragging about, but when women do the exact same thing, they are disgusted, discouraged, hated.

I hate it, I hate it, when those men, who doesn’t do anything, despise a woman, just because she is a woman. So just because we are females, we have be submissive, stay at home and do chores? I don’t get it. I really don’t. Yeah, of course, none of those people had come out from a woman’s womb.

I should be nicer and less aggressive you said? Oh, do you mean I should be more submissive? 凸 ^_^ 凸 (Nope, I am just showing you one of the many Chinese characters out there.)

May be, we, the women, have been too submissive and too docile for too long. For so long, it becomes normal for us to be viewed as a lower class in society, even as properties. A lot of times we just overlook it.

One Christmas morning I sat on the edge of my bed kicking and swinging my feet back and forth. “Cover your eyes” She said. I placed one hand in front of each eye, trying to peek through my small hands. “NO! Don’t you dare peak” she yelled. I sighed and closed my eyes. My little anxious body was uncomfortably moving. All I could think is what could it be? The room was still for a moment, darkness filled under my eyelids and the only thing you could hear was the shuffling of feet from the other room. After minutes of impatiently waiting. She entered the room and placed an object down that made a loud thud.I opened my eyes to see my mom standing in the doorway and my dad with a camera in his hands, recording every moment of the big reveal. My sister was standing behind the big box that had been perfectly wrapped with Santa Claus Christmas paper. “Are you going to open it?” she asked with a smile. It was a box slightly bigger than me at the time. So I had to stand on my toes to reach the top.

 I started to unwrap the wrapping paper slowly because even then and  still now I loved the anticipation of opening a present. I peeled back the wrapping paper  strip by strip, tearing the clean tucked wrapping paper into many small pieces. “Come on, Sandra, open it already, Do you need help?” my sister barked. I shook my head fiercely no as I opened up the last shreds of paper. My dad grabbed the last pieces of wrapping paper to put into a big black trash bag. I stood there in astonishment to see a big pink cinderella vanity set in front of me. “Open it!,Open the box mom!” I yelled in joy “ Thank you so much.” I hugged my sister tightly as she hugged me back,kissing my forehead. Then I heard a loud thud from above, i woke up to see my dog Trixie on the floor spread out because she just fell off the bed. I look to see that it’s not Christmas morning and I’m not six anymore. I look around to see their is no vanity set and the picture of my sister is still sitting on my dresser and realize  she is no longer with us and tears fill my eyes. I can’t go back to sleep anymore. The memory was way too strong for me to handle. So instead I listen to music. Music that lets me drift away from those memories as I look at the picture on my wall  and get lost into the grey and whiteness of it all. 

Holding on to the past has always been a speciality of mine whether it was good or bad, something about holding on to the past helps me gain a little more power on my life. This probably is how most people feel and a big reason why a lot of people don’t let go of their past . It can be looked through many different perspectives which can shine a light on why holding onto your past can be a good thing and why it can be a bad thing. Holding onto your past can cripple your chances of having a good future but it can also help guide you so you don’t make the same mistakes you made in your past in your future. Is learning from your past the same thing as holding on to it? Is holding onto your past more of a yearning to go back and change what already was or is it letting yourself dwell on something that already happened? Is letting go asking you to forget your past or telling you to move into future? Letting go is something we personally define for ourselves but all us must build up on a general idea of what it is before we can actually do it.

All of us has had either someone or ourselves do something or say something that has affected us in a good or bad way. This something that has happened to us in the past can either had been dealt with and processed in a healthy or unhealthy way. It all depends on our personal processing but those who deal with these things unhealthy are more bound to not to let it go.People who hold onto the past are the people who are dwelling in a moment that can not be changed. They are simply replaying the event over and over not just not in their heads but in their day to day life. When people can’t let the past go they tend to usually apply the good or bad things into their daily lives because if you can’t let go of the past you’ll probably repeat it . We can’t relive the pas7t we bring the our past into the future. It’s a coping method, even though change is relevant to all of our lives not everyone can handle it. Moving into the future is not a task it’s a mission.

Letting go is not asking you to give up your memories or your past, far from it. It is asking you not to focus on it forever. Remembering and learning from your past so that you can transition into the next state of your life is what letting go is asking you to do.You can’t be in one place and want to go to another and not move a step. You’ll remain in that same place until you go. Now time will move on without you weather you like it or not. You can’t stop time but stopping your life is easy because you just stop living it. Living in one moment forever will literally stop you from living life. You’ll be too invested into that moment that you won’t realize the wonderful things you’re missing out on. Moving into the future means to continue with time,letting life take its course without trying to change or alter it to go back. Moving into the future means seizing opportunities to make to progress and be at your best. Moving into the future and defining what that looks like for you is up you but defining how you remember your past in a healthy way is also up to you.

You have to find and define what that means for you, what moving into the future and remembering the past is to you. No one else can define this for you because well all operate, think,breath, and move in different ways. There are the basic steps on how to let go but to make them your goals and make it something you actually want to do you must make it personal because your past and future is personal. How do you make it personal to you? How do you define what letting go means to you? You must define it, first by setting goals for yourself. Aiming to change the ways of your past day by day. Breaking bad habits and finding healthy ones to replace them with. Surround yourself with people who support you, know your struggle and are happy to help you go through it. It has been time for you to you to let go of your past and move into your future. A pause or a break is for vacations not your past.

Introduction: I wrote this piece to help people understand my problems being a woman of color in a white southern family. Although I love my family, I have problems with them concerning issues of race. In this essay, my main goal was to highlight my relationship to them and show people a perspective on interracial families that is often now shown enough.

During February of 2015, my family and I went down to Virginia to spend Easter with my Aunt and Uncle. During the third or fourth day of our visit, my cousin Walter walked downstairs with a Nerf gun. He asked me to play nerf battle with him, to which I reluctantly agreed. He turns to my uncle and asked if he could get his terrorist hood. When Uncle Teddy replied yes, Walter ran upstairs and gets a green shirt, tying it around his face. His eyes were poking out of the neck hole of the shirt. Ruby and I look at our uncle in shock. He was just sitting there, laughing. I mention briefly to him that it was racist, to which he said that it was just something funny that Walter did. As I have gotten older, I cannot ignore these incidents with my white family, being one of the only black people in a family of white people. Family gatherings usually consist of all white people, along with my sister Ruby, my father and myself. I remember when I was four or five, when my Walter was born. Aunt Ann and Uncle Teddy, my grandmother and my mother all in my grandmother’s living room to welcome the baby. Being surrounded by my family with only my father and sister, wasn’t as weird as you think it would feel for a child. So from a young age I had grown accustomed to being surrounded by people who loved me but didn’t look like me. This left it on the shoulders of my almost non-existent black family to expose me to black culture.

Apart from my father and Aunt Helen I have no black relatives in my family. My dad was the only child, born to Ruby and Arthur Anderson, an older couple living in inner city Pittsburgh. My grandparents moved from Mobile, Alabama to Pittsburgh in the second wave of the Great Migration. They didn’t keep in contact with their families as there were few ways to do so. My Aunt Helen married my Great-Uncle Kenneth, a white relative. She is from Trinidad and I’ve only met her once. These things didn’t start to bother me until I was older. When the Trayvon Martin case really began to get a lot of national attention, it was a heated debate topic amongst my immediate family. We, being my parents and sister, agreed that George Zimmerman should be indicted and found guilty. All of us followed the case and discussed it avidly during dinner, each of us chiming in with our opinions. When we talked about it, I knew it was an issue that uniquely affected my sister, father and I more than it would my mother. She didn’t have to experience that fear that comes with being a black person watching these cases. Although she could relate them to my father, worrying about him and how he would survive around police officers, she never had that fear that we had of police officers handling us. The Trayvon Martin case was really the first time I really remember feeling like I was really different from most of my family. With all that has happened in the years since the Trayvon Martin case, I have become uniquely aware of who I am in American Society and how my experiences as a woman of color will be different from my white family members. What I’ve always wanted to do is find the space to explain to them my situation in a way that wouldn’t make them get defensive. In everyday life, I don’t concern myself with explaining oppression to white people. When I used to explain, it always ended up with them saying something about this is America reverse racism blah blah blah. But it’s different with my family. I want them to understand and be able to play their part in the movement. Being a black woman in a family of white people, makes me feel like I should be able to explain to help them, like it’s my job to include them in my experiences. Today, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I still feel like a welcome stranger in my family.

Introduction

This essay is about my person experiences in and out of school being a Black Female in America and people’s assumptions on what that means. I feel like people think I am a certain way based on my appearance and that’s not fair. I face racial profiling and falling in line with the people that I have fought my whole life to make sure I am nothing like everyday. I believe everyone in their life has been misjudged before and can relate to my story.

I am loud. I have a naturally loud voice. My friends are the same way. We laugh and we make jokes all the time, that’s what friends do. I do not speak in ¨proper tone¨ all the time because I do not feel the need to. I wear name brand sneakers, weave, tights, and fake nails. None of this has to do with me being black. I feel like because I am black people associate things I do, say, and wear with my entire race. I get stereotyped as the typical mean loud ghetto black girl all the time and that’s just not who I am.

I’ve been looked at this way for a long time. I remember talking to people who are even now my friends and them saying that when they first saw me they thought I was going to be such a bitch because of my face. My facial expressions categorize me as a squidward even though my personality is much more of a spongebob. We get wrapped up so much in people’s appearances that we lose focus on actually getting to know someone who could potentially be an amazing person. Everyone faces this kind of judgement in their life at some point. Based on what you have on that day or based on what you look like people are going to assume something about you that may or may not be true. In my case it was not true.

I am not ghetto. Every black person is not ghetto. Just because some of us act a certain way doesn’t mean all of us are this way. That’s like saying every white person is racist just because some of them are. It is not fair or right to assume based on the little information you know about a person or race to judge them. The word ghetto is used to describe a poorer part of a city usually home to multiple groups or minorities. By calling me ghetto one, is literally referring to me as a minority and saying they are better than me. The first time I was called ghetto I was in the 6th grade. My classmates found out I could not pronounce breakfast correctly. ¨ You sound like someone from the south ¨ they said, ¨you have a ghetto accent¨. Now I’ve been dealing with the way I say the word my entire life. I have always made a joke about it and everyone usually gets a good laugh at hearing the word said a different way than what they are used, but never have I ever felt so ashamed about the way I said it. In that moment I felt belittled. My classmates made me feel less then them then just as someone does now when they call me ghetto.

I think that the problem in current times is that everyone assumes things. You assume that because I speak loudly, I’m uneducated or because I wear certain clothes I’m a ¨thug¨ or a ¨hood rat¨ when both are invalid. I speak loudly to be heard. I spent so much time in my life being silent that when I finally realized I had a voice I discovered it was a loud one. I and the people I associate myself with are seen as that noisy troublesome black girl group. Freshmen year I and those same girls were accused of bullying someone who we were in fact not bullying but because we were who we were we couldn’t defend ourselves. We weren’t even allowed to speak on what we were accused of, they just assumed we did it based off little to no information. Yes we are loud. We laugh loud, we yell loud, we are a loud friend group that’s just who we are. Being loud and being angry are too different things but both also correspond in how people see myself and others like me. Based on someone’s assumption we were bullies and that’s how we were seen the rest of the school year. One little assumption destroyed all of our freshmen year.

Being a young black women in America is already hard enough. Issues like police brutality and black on black crimes is something I struggle with everyday. I don’t need to come somewhere I consider ¨safe¨ and be racially profiled, I don´t deserve to either. It already feels like the world is against me and my kind in this day and place that we call the ¨free world¨, so their are not a lot of places that I consider to be safe for me to be my true self. I thought I could be at school but it is very apparent that I can not be. In order for me not to be obnoxious or ¨hood¨ I would have to silence myself and lose who I am and that’s just not something I can do. Why should I? Do I not have the right as an American citizen to do and say as long as it is not bringing harm to anyone? Or do I not have this right because I am black? I am not going to change. I am going to continue to be loud and I am going to continue to dress and speak as I please. If you don’t like it, that’s your problem not mine.

Introduction: My goals for this essay was to make it as detailed as possible and I wanted it to be really interesting for the reader. I tried my hardest to make sure that it didn’t sound repetitive because that was one of my biggest problems during m process. I’m really proud of the final product and the comparisons I made in piece. I hope you enjoy it and give me some feedback on what I could improve on because of course there is always room to improve.

I’ve waited 4 years and it’s finally here. y heart beat rapidly as the words changed from downloading to play. I immediately rushed my headphones into the headphone jack and pressed play. The music was blasting. It was the only thing I heard and it was like coming up and taking a breath of fresh air. The first song was entitled Nikes like the sneaker company. The first beat dropped and I felt my body jolt with the music. As I looked up from my phone I saw the abstract painting in my living room. The shapes intertwine, making a beautiful melody. Seeing that gave this song a visual. I saw the complexity of the entire thing. The complexity of the 17 beautifully written songs. The 7th track enchanted my mind as it wrapped itself around my inner soul. It brought out how I felt about myself. It opened my mind to the sheltered soul who doesn’t like to let anyone in because they’re too afraid of being hurt.

I listened to the rhythmic melodies. “I came to visit cause you see me like a UFO. That’s like never, cause I made you use your self control” Thinking they were empty, little did I know they were about me. My fear of letting someone in started at the tender age of 3. I didn’t know my left from my right or how to tie my shoes but I knew what love was. The cozy yet comforting feeling of being loved by someone. It was like falling but knowing you were always going to be caught. I felt that feeling with my dad. I knew him all but 3 little years but our bond was like no other. I clung onto his leg as if it was the last thing I was ever going to hold. But on October 31st he was taken away from me. The news struck me like a bolt of lightning. I felt my body start to run out of water and my throat felt as if someone was clawing its way to the top. My fear of abandonment began there. When meeting new people I always carried my shield of armor with me making sure not to let no one enter my inner soul. I couldn’t be torn down again. I built a great wall of protection. It was covered by fake smiles and endless lies. But who could ever know?

My mind was clouded with the idea that nothing is forever. Love had a round trip ticket into my feelings. As soon it entered my mind I kicked it right out. I never wanted to feel the gut wrenching feeling of being lost and losing my control. The great wall of Nadya was guarded by agony and alienation. They made sure that my body never endured their pain and suffering for I would never come back from it. It became so easy not to let anyone in, it was almost like an alarm clock. It ticked for a while but when time was up I could hear my fears clawing and screeching in my mind to let me know that it was time to let them go. I let that become a norm to me because whenever I let someone in and try to feel that warm feeling of being loved my heart always gets ripped from my chest and torn into little pieces. Then I’m stuck trying to piece my heart together and what went wrong? I always come to the conclusion that it was my fault. I knew better. I heard common sense in the back of my mind begging me not to fall but I didn’t listen. I always fell, and I always fell hard. But this time there wasn’t anyone there to catch me and pick me back up, it was just me this time. Everytime I let myself lose my self control I fell the wall getting taller and taller and my mind starts to lose oxygen, start to lose the sense of life and just become another heartless being walking through the pathways of betrayal and hurt. Love always seemed to wander its way back into my life always trying to convince me to let someone love me. I remember when I finally let someone in, I showed them the real me. I poured my soul into every breath I took when I was with them. I got attached, and once I got attached there was no going back and no letting go. I lost myself, and I lost who I was. It felt like I could finally breathe. The feeling of being loved filled my whole body with warmth. Everything was great but then they decided that I just wasn’t enough. I remember staring at the crisp white screen as it went from those three little grey dots to “I’m not cheating on you, but I can’t promise you that I’m not going to.” It turned my insides out, I felt my heart drop to my feet. I thought to myself “not again.” I felt the tears race down my red cheek as I sobbed into my pillow making sure no one could hear my hurt. My pillow was full of broken hearts and broken promises disguised as wet stains from my tears. But I knew those stains all too well to believe they were just tears.

I seem to always lose who I am in the midst of losing my control. When I let my wall down I lose who I am. I’ve always kept my feelings and when they are finally brought to light it’s never enough and I always lose the person I love and myself. I keep my feelings locked away in a tower and they sometimes try to peek out but I always make sure that they are never to leave. It almost feels like I’m trying to balance an equation. Trying to balance an equation of my life.

With this piece, I wanted to first connect to my own childhood and show how I grew up as a reference. I then connected the piece to a memory of visiting the Titanic museum where I first realized all of the changes in how people are being raised with technology and the impact it is having. I then went into my analysis and explained all of the negative impacts I am seeing on my own brother who is struggling to detach from technology. I can see it is taking over our society and throughout the piece I want to show how we are losing morals by doing so and how apprehensive I am about technology growing. I am proud of the way I told the stories, because I feel like I pushed myself to use a lot of descriptive language to make my story more compelling. In the future, I would want to make it a bit shorter so that I can really work on getting my point across.

This is it. Now is your chance. There it is. There’s the aisle. “Mommy…”, I said. “Yes Emily.”, my mother responded fully expectant of the next few words to jump off of my lips. “Can I get a Barbie?”, I asked as sweetly as I possibly could with a menacing little smile. “How many dolls do you already have”, my mom said matter-of-factly. “Not that many! And I don’t have any with a sparkly dress like this one. Pleaseeeeee”, I begged. Once we got home, I wildly searched through the matching plastic bags waiting until I found the doll, introducing her to the rest of my collection. I would sit in my room with the box of barbies for hours, talking to myself acting as each different girl. My mind would never tire of moving the plastic people around, creating scene after scene. I could keep myself occupied and simply change their outfits to inspire a new plot. Creativity was a constant flow through my veins just like any other child of my generation. We didn’t rely on anyone I didn’t realize just how much the times have changed until I stepped back and saw how my siblings have been raised. Pieces of the changes I see in them have been left as bread crumbs for me to discover. I found the bread as it all suddenly hit me. This past summer, my family flew to Ireland to visit my relatives. A new exciting experience that was first on our list was the Titanic museum. As soon as I stepped through the boat-shaped glass building, I was transfixed on each artifact hanging on the walls. I read every board to drown myself in the stories of the great tragedy. As we walked through each room and each exhibit, we reached a darker room. As I walked through, there were transcripts of the final communication with the passengers of the ship. There was one worker who stayed in the engineering room to communicate with the other ship sent to help rescue them. “Come quickly. Please hurry. CQD(the old fashion version of “SOS”)”, the worker sent in morse code. “We are on the way”, the ship sent back. Moments later, the worker would send another message. “Please come quickly. The boilers are almost filled. There is not much time. CQD”, the worker said. “We are coming as quickly as we can”, the ship responded. “The ship is sinking quickly. CQ————(radio silence)”. That was the final transmission ever sent from the Titanic. I stopped as I read, chills rolled down my spine and each hair stood up on end. Each dead body had a name, a family, a story. With each word I read, I felt myself growing and learning. I was so in touch with life in this moment. I walked through the exhibit with a heavy heart and a million thoughts buzzing around in my head. I looked around at everyone else walking through, wondering if they felt the way I did. I was met with blank faces. My eyes darted around the room until they finally landed on two boys running through the exhibit with their eyes locked on their bright iPhones. They rushed past each picture, artifact, and piece of history and stood by the stairs never glancing up from the technology. Every ounce of blood in my body began to boil. One of them was my own brother. I was absolutely speechless. The fact that my twelve year old brother had the audacity to breeze by a hundred years worth of history like they were nothing but scrawny morsels of words strung together limply, and had dried up without a single meaning to them. At first, I was tempted to scream at my brother, because he knew better than to disrespect everything this museum, and humanity, stood for. Or did he? My brother was only a small window I looked through to view the larger issue at hand: the new generation. They are being raised in the age of technological advances, which seems to be slowly consuming them. Their childhood is being stripped down the nothingness. Barbie dolls are being replaced with iPads. Creativity replaced with Netflix, real life replaced with artificial conceptions. My brother couldn’t disconnect from his phone for twenty minutes to learn about a real event and discover. He was so ignorant to everything around him, much like millions of others in society. I grew up aware of my surroundings and valuing people and my creativity, while he is growing up in a world where Facebook friends he’s never met are more important. I didn’t have pointless Apps to absorb hours of my life, instead I interacted with others and the world around me to expand and teach myself tools I would need growing up. My brother is missing out on this, and has already surpassed his window of creative childhood. It is sad to watch him reach for his Xbox controller instead of a book, or a soccer ball. Social media and these technologies have become artificial priorities and are taking over. Supposedly we are gaining more from technology, but I see it eating away at the youth. There is nothing to do but sit back as the barbies are thrown away and the iPhones take over.

Intro:

My idea for this paper was to show how my relationship with my parents has grown over the years and, as shown through my gifts, I really appreciate them, especially my mom. I mention that as I’m getting older and as I’m maturing, I am thinking more of others and I am adding more emotion to my gifts that I give her.

Essay:

This year for Mother’s Day, I wanted to get my mom something really special. The years before, I hadn’t really given her anything that was spectacular. It was mainly just cards that I had made, or little things that I had painted. But this year I knew that I wanted to do something different.

In previous years for Mother’s Day, I do remember the day that me, my dad and my sister went to a ceramic and art studio. We had no idea what was going to come out of our time there, we weren’t sure about anything at that point. This idea was kind of a last resort thing since Mother’s Day was so close and we still didn’t have a gift yet. A week before this, we had my sister’s birthday party at the same place and we really liked it here. Walking through the door, I felt a cool breeze hit me along with the chill from outside. My dad talked to the person at the front desk about some things that were available to paint as a gift. Most of the ideas that she mentioned didn’t really appeal to him, until he heard her say that they had big salad plates available. She went to the back of the studio and brought out a big ceramic plate. It was rough to the tough, almost as if it was sanded down before it was brought out to us.

At first when we got the plate, we tried to come up with ideas of what would look good on the plate and what would look nice in our kitchen. We decided to go with a cooking theme because my mom loved to cook. The next thing that we had trouble with was deciding what colors we would use and more of a specific design. The first thing that came to mind was wine because she loved cooking with it and it went perfectly with the theme. We drew it out and as we continued drawing, everything started coming together. Around the rim of the dish is speckled paint that is not too thick and not too thin, just around the rim or edge. In the dead center there is a painted wine bottle that says Pinot Noir in the center of the wine bottle as a label and in the top right hand corner of the label is 2012. Under the word Noir is a thin squiggly line and also on the top of the word Pinot. At the spout of the wine, the cork is short and shaded. The inside of the outlined wine bottle is also shaded. Near the spout of the wine bottle are four thicker winding lines, thicker than the squiggly lines on the wine bottle. 

As I worked on those things, my sister had a different design in mind that didn’t really fit the theme. She started to paint flowers on different parts of the plate and at first it was weird, but then it started to look okay because it added some color. I wanted to make the lines sharper on some of the flowers, so I walked over to a set of cabinets that had little bottles of paint that you added a metal tip to and it made clean lines. They only had a few of those tips, so we had to wash the ones we used with warm water. I was about to rinse the tips and when I turned the water and stuck my hand underneath, I burned myself with the water. I felt the pain rush up my hand into my arm. I felt stinging my hand, so I quickly switched the water to cold and it instantly changed the pain in my hand. Next to the wine bottle on the left are flowers, the one on top is bigger than the one on the bottom.

So we drew the wine bottle on the plate and came up with an idea to paint grapes around it. I remember agreeing with that idea, but then not knowing how to paint grapes. The lady overheard me and handed me this long stick with a small end that was almost like a dotting tool and a large end with an even larger dotting tool. I tried using that, but dots ended up being too small and the shape was weird so I just used a paintbrush instead. Right next to the wine bottle on both sides are bunches of grapes, the one on the left wraps around the front of the wine bottle. Under the bunch of grapes on the left of the wine bottle, to the bottom left hand corner is a little open cook book illustration with the words Cookbook underneath it. Next to that is the word Pasta. Slightly above that to the right a little is a little drawing with rainbow swirls and hearts. Right next to the bunch of grapes on the right of the wine bottle is a flower that just has the petals outlined. Right above the bunch of grapes on the right side of the wine bottle is another flower with outlined petals. In the open spaces are squiggly lines, but only a few. It started to come together really well.

My dad slowly added things that helped make the plate come to life, like little illustrations of a cookbook and words like Pasta and Cookbook. When we finished painting the details, we looked at the plate and noticed that it was missing something. So my dad thought that it needed a border and he also added some squiggly lines in places that were empty. Then we told the lady that we were finished and she wrote our names on the back and put it in the kiln. She told us to pick it up in a few days. After a few days past we went to pick it up and once we got there, we saw it and said that it looked great and that my mom would really enjoy it.

This year was completely different for Mother’s Day. I was out with my friends, when my parents and my sister had gone to my aunt’s house for the day. We were shopping for clothes for the upcoming comic con at the Central library. I remember that in the morning when my dad dropped me off it was chilly and rainy, which didn’t help with a hurt ankle which I sprained earlier that week. We all met up at a Starbucks that was on 20th and Market because it was closest to H&M, which was the first store we wanted to go to visit. I walked into the Starbucks and instantly a gust of cold air hit me. I saw my friend sitting by a big window, holding their rainbow umbrella, waiting for others to show up. A few minutes after I walked in, my other friends tapped on the window for us to meet them outside.

After going to a few stores, we got something to eat at Wendy’s and some of us went to Five Guys. When everyone was finished eating, we went to Liberty Place to take a gander at what they had to offer. We went to a few stores such as Express and Bloomingdales. We didn’t find anything we needed in those stores, but after looking through a few more stores, we finally found this clothing store that was small and not a commonly known shop, but had things that we needed to complete our outfits.

I wanted to go to Bath & Body Works while we were in Liberty Place, so me and one of my other friends went there while the others were checking out of the previous store. As I walked into the store, my nose filled with various aromas and my senses were awakened. I noticed that they were having a sale on hand sanitizers, 5 for $6. Above the display, I saw another sign that was talking about gifts for Mother’s day. I asked the lady at the front desk,

“Hey what is the mother’s day sale?”

She said, “You can make your own bag or set of body washes, lotions and sprays for a certain price.” So I went to the section that she pointed to and started putting things together.

On the way back home I was thinking about previous years, what I got her and how she reacted. Those years in the past I realized that each year my gifts were like an upgrade from the previous year. As I was getting older, I was thinking more of others and giving myself more to people. I was becoming more emotional with my cards, I was using words and memories that I knew would mean something to her. The cards turned into 2 page letters, the little hand painted things turned into things bought with my money and the little poems written by 7 year olds to meaningful words written by a mature 15 year old.

When I got home, I re-wrapped the gift and added something else to it. I also found a really nice little gift bag to put in that kind of fit the theme of the gift that I got her. Later in the week I wrote her a really nice little heartfelt letter that came to me as I went along. I had to hide it in my room until it was Mother’s Day. On Mother’s day when I gave it to her she read the letter first and as her eyes went down the paper, her eyes filled with tears. When she finally opened the gift, she gave me a big hug, thanked me and told me,

“This is one of the best Mother’s Days yet.”

I remember the first time I read breakfast at Tiffany’s. The old colored paper and the distinct smell of an old worn in book swirling into my nose, there’s nothing like swiping my finger across a page until it reaches the corner and the other side reaches my thumb, as I hang on to every word in anticipation before I flip It. Sitting in class the world around me seemed to dissipate and I kept anticipating the main character to be named Tiffany; since I never even read a review. I became so intrigued by Holly Golightly, the real main character. Her metaphors and analogies intrigued me. The world around me began to blur, my eyes saw black words printed on what used to be white paper, but what I saw was a woman and man at Tiffany’s, everything became so clear the heat of the mean reds, the smell of cracker jack’s and the sound of a cat named cat. I was there. I was falling into a world that didn’t belong to me, or anyone else but lived in my mind, and I was reminded by that when my teacher tapped on my shoulder and told me it was time to go.

I always found myself in what my mom called “lala land” speaking of how a child gets distracted and/or sings while they do things, however I never sang. Instead the world around me would disappear and time froze, or at least it feels like it would. I was never aware of it freezing. It’s not a adrenaline nor a day dream, but a calm. The worst part of it all is always coming out of lala land and facing reality. It’s like being woken out of a beautiful dream right before something spectacular happens. I never know when I go into the zone, I am usually just doing something and once my passion and imagination start spiraling nothing else matters.

Like in those old movies when someone is kissing someone fully in love, Imagine that like getting lost in them, this is usually where the movie cuts off and happily ever they live. But they never show the part when they are snapped back in from their fantasy. Hearing something that makes them realize times not frozen and although they may be alone together, the two aren’t alone in the world. My mind is probably the only thing that has been returned from the Bermuda Triangle. I get so lost in myself, someone or something I cease to realize I’m falling back in, just like the couple. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s like falling in love; the only part that sucks is when you hit the ground, that’s kind of how I feel when I get snapped out of it.

An October Saturday on a New York street felt my heart with joy and I heard a solemn song play in my ear of cars, yelling and people talking because I am and always will be a city girl, no matter what city i’ll be at home. I pulled my grey hoodies sleeves down on my fall frozen red hands and hood over me, in an attempt to fight the new york wind against flipping my hair in a tornado. Lit by a street light, I saw this women painting and man on the sidewalk making names out of wire. It was I looked to the right, a photo for my breakfast at Tiffany’s themed room in Philadelphia. The women put the posters in black thick frames, as my mom watched the man bend wire into our last name, I handed the Asian woman $15. I carried the three photos in a big blue bag, towards my mom with both of my hands, using it also as a shield for the wind. Towards my mom getting the perfect trip nick nack, watching her drift into the same place she’d always catch me in, I paused. Gazing at her hazel eyes glazed over and illuminated by the city, watching the man’s hand bend wires with a tool, almost in second nature, attaching a piece of artwork like the statue of liberty, the women dipping color onto a brush then on a canvas, watching them both. I was watching the three, I could tell none of them were there. She was lost in their movement and they were lost in their art.

It was then that I realized that everybody has their own place of fantasy. Imagination is limitless. Whether it’s movement, dancing, creating or getting lost in our moment. It’s a private island of wealth in imagination, that everyone has a chance to submerge into the boundless ideas, people, places and things. No one’s lala land is the same and never has to stay the same, the one thing it has in common is the part where you get snapped back and reality and realize that these are only black words on what will be only white canvas and there’s more going on then you reading my paper.

Memories come to me at random times, in random places. They play in my head like a flipbook; multiple images creating a familiar scene. Sometimes I want to go back to that scene, and sometimes I just want to leave them alone but my brain makes me think about them over and over despite how many times I wish I could forget. I am taken to some places more than others multiple times. One place I never seem to lose is the home I grew up in; a small apartment in Germantown, top floor, apartment A. There were two front doors: the outside door and the actual front door. Beyond the outside front door led a long stretch of stairs, speckled green and black like a cat’s eyes. They wound to our actual front door. It was a tall, red door; the poppy-colored cover of an old book of an apartment with walls the color of browning pages. A plump sofa and matching loveseat sat invitingly at either side of the living room with satin and knitted pillows. The floors were fuzzy and tan like oatmeal, I used to think. Below us was a small pharmacy where we spent quite a lot of time, when we would get a $1 or $5 if the tooth fairy was generous about front teeth or molars. Out back was a large tree my sister and I used to climb; it’s limbs large arms that bore delicate bunches of pink petals that fell in our hair and pockets.

I can recall a number of pleasant childhood memories in that place, but I can also remember vividly the times I just wanted to leave. I used to feel cramped, sick of the beige walls and the beige carpet and the narrow hallway that felt like a two-way street. I banged my head against the pages of that aging book and filled my pillow with tears silently because I hated being stranded on the top floor and watching the city pass below. Music blared, people shouted and sang at all hours of the night, sirens whirred and cars screamed, but I floated above it all, craving to escape the chaotic scene. I would always ask my parents “When are we going to leave?” but they would never reply. That angered me, but little did I know that they secretly dreamt of leaving too.

One day, my dad came home from work, the same way he always did, but today was different. Today, I sat on the couch with my mom and sister like we always did also, but outside, peculiar streams of auburn and ginger ribboned the evening sky. It was also strangely chilly for springtime and the quilt was pulled up to my neck. “Did you hear what happened?” my dad asked. My mom sat up. “No.” “They bought out Fred’s store,” he began. “Who?” “Some realtor company. They said he has thirty days to pack all his things and leave…and so do we.” My mom and sister gasped. I froze. Hearing those words gave me a nervous rush in my gut. Was this how God was punishing me? For all the times I was angry at him for putting me in this tiny apartment, and for all the times I thought my parents hated me for making me live here: was this how I was being repaid? I didn’t know how to react. For so long I wished to leave this place…but not like this. As we sat in silence, a harsh winter tumbled and raged beneath our roof. It was still cold went to bed that night and it gave me a deep shiver that shook every part of me. I couldn’t eat. I tossed all night. I worried for my parents because for the next few nights, I know they didn’t get any sleep either. The lights would be on for all hours of the night, and from the living room I could hear them shouting and talking, and then I realized: I was no longer above the scene that I longed to flee from, I was right in the middle of it. It had called me to it without calling my name. It knew me, followed me. I had dreamt about it before; what it was like to be in the midst of the frantic city. But here I was: staring it in its red eyes. My sister felt it too. We turned away from it, but it was everywhere we looked. We shut our door tight and covered our ears with pillows but it was always there…until one day, it wasn’t. The chaos inside and out had ceased for just a moment it seemed, maybe two. Either way it was quiet and the lights were off, and I was asleep. The next day we learned that my parents found a house.

Finally, they day had come where we could no longer stay in our apartment. Our chairs and tables and beds were gone, and our lives had been sealed into brown boxes that lined the hallway. I had never seen it that way before. I had never seen the living room without our bookshelf or the glass coffee table. I had never seen the room that my sister and I shared without colorful blinds or toys on our beds. In that moment, I wished I could have it all back: the keyboard in the hallway, the small radio in the kitchen. They were in some box or another, but they weren’t where they belonged. There I stood, in the middle of the silence and it was what I always wanted…but it was too silent. The chaos had been driven out from the street and from inside but I couldn’t recognize my surroundings. I couldn’t place the feeling I had because I never had it before and it startled me. It also saddened me. I was headed to a place I had never been, in a house I had never seen. When I could no longer take the desolate atmosphere of my now empty home, I turned to face my mom. “I think I’m ready to go now,” I concluded. We both headed toward the door, and she too took a final look. “Alright. Let’s go,” she said doing her best to conceal her sadness. With that, she shut the red cover of our ten-year novel.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to my old house. Sometimes I wish I could revisit the room I grew up in and run around the kitchen in footy pajamas because of the sound my feet made against the plastic tile or climb that giant tree with my sister the way we used to do every summer. Looking back on the day I left, it’s easy to recall the hurt and anger my parents and I endured. But with it having been almost eight years since leaving my childhood home I have acquired a bit of wisdom and can actually see it as a positive experience. When I got to my new house, the movers had brought in the couches, tables, lamps, and few other items from the apartment. It didn’t feel the same of course. The floors were wooden, the walls the color of fresh pages rather than weathered ones. To this day, the same couches from my old house remain in my current one, and it gives me a sense of comfort. Even as it took some time for my home to feel like home, I had something that I could recognize which made everything feel grounded. I think of this often, especially when I am trying something new or am not excited about change. This memory tells me that yes, change is a process and it’s always up to you. It can be the chaos of the city street or the quiet atmosphere of a small home. Either way, it’s inevitable and at times frustrating, but it gives you the chance to narrate your story on the fresh pages of a new book. Now, I guess it’s even safe to say, being driven out of our home was actually…a good thing.

Introduction: The goals for my paper were to get the audience to understand how I got over my shyness and was able to talk to someone I really liked. I am proud that I was able to use something important to me in a class writing assignment. I normally write on topic and this gave me a chance to talk about what I like and what made me happy. Areas for improvement in the future go to more people for feedback, expand my writing vocabulary and next writing I will write more even though I wrote pass the word limit. I am proud that I came out with a good piece of writing and that I worked hard on it.

When we got to the game it was about 7:15. The other team was in the lead unfortunately but after the 3rd quarter, they started working hard getting the score back close to a tying score. As we were watching the game, the game plays for Overbrook were working. The team runs down the field tossing the ball back and forth to one another, knocking anyone down in their way. Touchdown ! The crowd screams and the cheerleaders began to cheer. The Overbrook panthers had scored another touchdown and got in the lead. The crowd is now stomping their feet and clapping loudly. Overbrook had made a touchdown tying score. After the touchdown was made a certain player catches my eye. He has on an orange and black jersey. I’m not really sure who he is or what position he plays but he had my attention that whole game. Player 15. Every Time I looked on that field I looked and watched player 15 run through players like it was nothing , helping the team score.

He had my attention through the whole game and nothing else had my attention. I completely ignored the other players as if he was the only player on that team. I went to a couple games just too shy to actually talk to him. I thought of so many different ways to approach him but I never would go through with it. I thought of talking to him before the game , talking to him after the game , or just talking to him through one of the other team members but I never tried any of these ideas. I even thought of like bumping into him but I knew that wouldn’t work out.

So many thoughts in my head. I didn’t even know how to go over and start a conversation with him. I wanted to get over my shyness and just go talk to him. I was so shy and I wouldn’t wanna talk to him if I was too shy because that could have been embarrassing I thought.

I went to a couple games hoping to see his face but I never saw him. He would always go from the locker room straight to the bus so I never got a chance after the game to speak and before the game, I didn’t want to knock his focus so I stayed to myself. One night I went to a game and after the game was over he took off his helmet and I thought he was so handsome in my eyes. I figured at that point I had to talk to him one way or another. I told myself that I shouldn’t be scared and I should take the risk because the worst thing he could say would be no. One day I was outside of my cousin’s house and I saw him walking down the street with my friend. First I thought of going in the house trying to avoid him , then I figured no I should stop being so scary and just speak up and say something. So I took a deep breath and called my friend to the side. When he came to the side I told my friend to get his number for me and he told me to stop being so shy and speak. So I went over , talked to him for a minute and things went well.

We hung out a couple times and at first things were kinda awkward but after a while things got better. If I hadn’t talked to him or spoke up I wouldn’t have got a chance to meet him. So I was glad I got over my shyness and spoke up because it changed things for the better. I was glad that things got better than before because if things continued to be the way they were then maybe things wouldn’t have worked out. Our first date was really weird at first because we didn’t know what to talk about or even what we wanted to for at the restaurant. After a while, we got more comfortable talking with each other and dates were more relaxing and fun. We went out to eat a lot , and to the movies once or twice.

Time had passed we got to know each other better. We had found a lot in common like our attitudes, interest and we shared some of the same values. Things were looking good throughout the time when we made things official.

We had our tough times but overall I don’t think I would want to be with anyone else. Thinking back to months ago when I was afraid to even approach him , I wouldn’t have imagined us together as of now. As you know his number was 15, but now he’s player 7 because it’s my favorite number.

Introduction:

This paper follows the idea that memories are usually idolized in good benefit and we seem to always neglect the bad parts about it. It tells the story of multiple events in my life that I always loved and remember and I decided to name the negative things about each situation that we all know about but never say. I am very proud of my analysis in this paper, and how I connected my stories back to my main idea. Also, I love my anecdote and how I went back to that idea in my conclusion. Some things I feel I could do better with in the future is adding dialogue into my story and let it run smoothly throughout the essay. Also, I hope my descriptive writing is good enough for the reader to feel exactly what I felt when writing this story and understand the idea of the entire paper.

I Want to be a Child Again by Tia Roberts

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The sound of a roaring and shattering killer of a lavish night of sleep. I slowly rise, eyes barely allowing me to see the full sight. The red lines marking a distant six, zero, zero. Just minutes of sitting there in my head soon turned into longer times in reality. Rushing to get ready for a day I knew I would surely regret; full of tedious classwork and never ending periods. Reminiscing about a time when life was so easy and simple. When very complex situations were more obvious. Allowing myself to be free to my own extent. Being young was a blessing, but it also has its setbacks. I miss the idea of childhood more than actually living a child’s life. 

Running on the hard cemented ground where the pebbles felt like thousands of small hills my feet soon had to climb. Approaching the cold metal gates that were almost five times my height. Looking through the diamond shaped holes which opened a hole of happiness within my body. The sight of kids and laughter was all I needed to fill my body with a bursting dose of excitement. I loved the park, it was always my favorite place to go. But as time goes by I realize the pain I always endure; from the leaking blood streams of my knee or the plumping purple blisters that covered my fingers. I remember crying about every little scrape and always needing a person right by my side to take care of it. This made me question my constant need to be in this situation again. As we get older our memories of childhood all seem to be happy and something we wish we could relive, but we tend to forget all the negative aspects of our memories. When we think of the park we focus on the fun of it, like all the games and friends we made during each visit. We forget to mention the times when everything wasn’t so perfect at the park. Like that time when I lost my favorite toy, or all the red swollen hands I would take home just to ice because of the monkey bars. Not only did these constant bumps and bruises affect my cry baby childhood, but also my now partially adult life. The whole scenery of parks no longer resembled fun for me. Just many dull swing sets empty of life with all it’s tears in it’s hard black material. No hope for the slides filled with unrepairable marks and uncleansed kids. Childhood must have just sounded better in my mind.

Crawling on the warm fuzzy carpet from the playroom to my bedroom. The lights in the living room always had a gloomy look to them. Constantly observing the world around me was something like a habit. Having nothing to worry about but your own actions was one of the best features of childhood. Not a care in the world. Crawling up the steps felt like rock climbing because if I went too fast I would tumble and fall. But the fall was not my biggest fear. The fear of not reaching my destination was the biggest one. It crossed my mind more times then my body hitting the ground after missing my next step. Having the freedom to make my own moves was a good thing; until you realize that there was always a larger restriction. My imagination ran wild only to soon be caught by the ones who always towered me. Shadows of figures grew bigger and bigger, it seemed as if my day of play soon turned for the worst. No more running, no more toys, just lay in the bed and make no noise. But I loved playing with my toys from the play room and making a scene. Naming them and dressing them up how ever I wanted. Discovering that this feeling doesn’t last was like thousands of knives stabbing me in my chest. My idea of childhood has abandoned me and left me with unpleasant memories. This has now helped me escape this imaginary world of where everything is all fun and games to open my eyes to reality. The reality that not everything is good. Life when we were younger always seemed to backfire on us yet we praise it as a time we wish we could have back. No reliving, we continue on.

Daddy’s little girl sounds like the perfect title as it left the lips of the over towering stranger. Proud to be called that name, which left smiles on so many faces. Everything about it seemed perfect until I realized the importance of the title and all the actions that came with it. Always wanting my father and hugging him until my face loses most of it’s oxygen. Calling for him day and night and always wanting the comfort of him near me. “Daddy!” Sadly this wasn’t particularly my reality. Hugs went to the bear that was fluffier than a bed of marshmallows. Taller than a child like me and sweeter than a sweet tooth. I was a mommy’s girl which you don’t hear often but even so, as the years went on the bond slowly faded. The child that always wanted her parents became a child who could now explore an undiscovered world without them. The idea of the towering strangers became stranger than the idea of no comments at all. I realized maybe I like being the age I am.

Loud alarm clocks became smoothing beeps. Swaying side to side as I awoke from my sleep. Starting my day of a newly found adventure, now seemed like the greatest thing in my life. So yes I sat through my tedious classes and never ending periods, but it all came with my freedom of life and freedom of expression. Yes being young may have its ups and fun moments but it can also bring you down. Childhood is not always as amazing as it sounds. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I’m ready.

 Introduction:

My goals for this paper are to relate my feelings of anger and my experiences with myself to the audience, and inform them. I’m proud of some of the parts where I feel like I relate my ideas well, and also some of my descriptive scenes from memory aren’t too bad, I think. Apparently my transitions aren’t very good even though they’re fine and if they should be better than you have to tell me what’s wrong with them (a wonderful example of passive aggressive anger), so my transitions could be improved and my ideas and analysis could be better and I’m sure everything could be improved.

 Essay

Things make me angry. Lots of things make me angry. Everything makes me angry, and anything can make me angry with the right circumstances. I am an angry person, but you might not be able to make the case that I have anger issues as I have developed an amount of self-control in the last few years. It’s not difficult to make me angry, but one of the things that makes me angrier quicker than anything else is time. More specifically my time being wasted.

Unfortunately for me and the people who have to interact with me on a regular basis, this happens more often than I’m comfortable with. Many of these instances involve my family members, as my mom seems to love wasting my time slightly more than she loves my sister. It doesn’t matter the activity, she’ll find a way to waste time. Going over to my grandparents? Let’s stay over there until 9 o’clock on a Tuesday. Running into the grocery store to buy milk? Apparently we have a lot of things to buy. Even something as mundane as driving home is subject to this uncanny ability. My mother and I were driving home when she decided it was time to stop to stop for some art.

“No.” I pleaded. I don’t plead often. This had been an unexpected stop, hence my pleading. We stood in the tent, plastic on four sides which did nothing but enhance the oppressive heat. We were encircled by art, or “art” as many would consider it. I am one of those. The abstract paintings surrounded us. And my mother just happened to pick out the worst possible one.

Now while these detours frustrate me, there is another type of time-commandeering that infuriates me. I only have two days in the weekend, and a lot of work to do in that time. I like to spread it out, pace myself properly. This puts me on a very tight schedule. I have “x” amount of time to do work, “y” amount of work to be done, and “z” amount of downtime. Yet, nearly without fail, I am interrupted. I can understand when there are things scheduled for the weekend, things to do, errand to run, and I am fine with doing them. As long as I know ahead of time. And sometimes, I am not so forewarned. And during a particularly busy Saturday, I can get angry.

On this particular wasted Saturday, I stormed into my room and slammed the door. It doesn’t take much to slam my door, but I gave it the extra push just to prove my point. I glanced at my phone, the time reading 5:02. God. Damnit. I did my best to control my anger. This limited the outlet of my rage to the nearest throwable object, which just happened to be a pen. I took a few breaths in which I thought about my situation again, and promptly threw the pen at the wall. I let out a sigh, almost a groan but not quite, and slumped into my chair, which had begun to crack quite badly in places. I checked my phone again, 5:03. I had to leave in a few minutes. I stood back up with a groan that was almost a sigh and angrily picked up the pen as angrily as you can do that. I looked around the room again, then exited, not quite slamming the door this time.

This isn’t holding anything against my mom, merely accentuating how much I value my time, and providing a reason for why. She has taught me to cherish it, for it may change owners at any moment. As I said, when things are scheduled everything is fine. I am willing to sacrifice time with very little complaint if I am given the proper notice. But if not, then the examples above show the reasons for my anger.

My anger, as annoying as it is, is an integral part of who I am, it’s part of my identity. I somewhat enjoy being angry, as counterintuitive as that may seem. As my classmates and friends can attest to, I am the short kid who get’s angry at everything, give or take a few adjectives. And I embrace this openly. I’ve had a degree of anger problems for a long time. I can remember getting mad at the tiniest little things in first grade. But as I grew older, I learned to control it better (not perfectly, but better), harness it even, in a similar fashion to the “If you embrace your faults then no one can use them against you” quote. I’ve even said I’m at my best when I’m angry. So, all in all, it’s almost a good thing that I’m always angry.

Introduction:

My goals for the paper was to address the topic of extrovert versus introvert and ask why being extroverted is still deemed the more desirable outcome if all it affects is how people recharge. I also address many stereotypes and complications that an introvert grows up with. The parts of the paper I am most proud of is the opening scene because I really spent time on describing the scenario and I just really like it. Areas for improvement for the future is definitely my analysis. I knew where I wanted to take this paper and what to talk about, but writing it all down in a chronological order is difficult for me and I often jump too fast.

Essay:

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, to take in the scent slowly, savoring it. I can identify the aroma of ink, aging paper, and the oily wood essence of books. I can hear the slow methodical crackles as pages are turned and words are absorbed. I open my eyes and all around me I see my type of environment. I smile and tug on my mom’s arm, beckoning her to my favorite section of the library, children’s fiction and adventure.

We go down the old steps and I count them as I always did. One, two, three… I don’t pay attention to the girl in front of me or how I almost plow her over, just the slow counting.

Once we get to the bottom of the stairs, I practically run in the children’s section to ensure my favorite spot to read, the back lonely corner.

I say bye to my mom and brother and break off from them, relishing my alone time. I grab a Goosebumps book off a shelf. I sit down merrily on the cold wooden stool as no one was in my spot and I crack open my book smugly.

Once I was about three chapters in, I saw a small boy making his way to my corner in my peripheral vision. I frown because I’m really not in the mood to ‘connect’ to people. I want some recharging time. Of course the boy decided to stop right in front of me and I had to put my book down to see what he wanted.

“Excuse me?” I asked lightly, unsure of what this kid wanted.

“Uuh… I like reading in this corner… Can I sit next to you and just read?” I was shocked, it wasn’t another one of those excited younger kids who bugged you about reading to them.

“Sure? Can you just be quiet?”

“Of course Miss, thank you.”

He seems like someone like me, someone who enjoys being alone to think.

When I was a younger kid, being introverted was not a top quality to have. Adults would often wonder if introverted children even had social problems or even disabilities. Being independent was fine, but being too independent scared a lot of parents.

The idea of introversion often turns people off because extroversion is pushed by society to be more desirable in individuals. Introverts are depicted as shy people with a very few amount of friends, while extroverts are shown as the type of people who are popular or successful. All of this is untrue. How is being an extrovert deemed more successful than an introvert? People say you need people skills to climb the social ladder, but people skills and how individuals charge have no correlation.

Introverts often get a bad wrap and there’s a lot of misconceptions about us. People who seem outgoing aren’t always extroverted, they could be introverts. What my main point is is that introversion and extroversion can never be fully judged by another person and that not one leads to more success than the other.

Growing up as an introvert was really difficult because often people would push what their idea of what ‘introvert’ meant onto me. I was supposed to be a shy girl, a people hater, a serious person, weird. However, I act completely different than what people think an introvert should act like. I am a very outgoing individual who has people skills and even enjoys public speaking. I push myself to try new things and am often not serious at all. The only stereotype I’ve really held true was that I like to read. I like to read because I like discovering new worlds and new stories, not because I get energized by being alone. Being an introvert also does not mean a lack of confidence either. Introverts can be really confident because they need that inner focused recharge time and are often more comfortable with all of themselves.

Introverts and extroverts aren’t just black and white either, another misconception people often have. Often there is a spectrum of how people are receiving energy. Some interactions may cause slight energy decrease, while others cause the person to be completely drained (It’s the opposite for extroverts!).

As a whole, there are certainly biases for both introverts and extroverts. And there are certainly stereotypes. While introverts are “supposed” to be quiet and shy, extroverts are “supposed” to be loud and outgoing. We all know these stereotypes may be false and even if an individual falls under one of these stereotypes, it does not define a whole group of people. So, my question is why is being extroverted still more sought over even though all it reflects is how an individual gets energy?

Introduction:

This essay is my reflection on a connection I had made with an important person in my life, which was then suddenly severed. My goals for this paper were to try and enhance my descriptive language and to work on describing actual events that happened in my life. I wanted people to understand the connection that I had with this person and how guilt and sorrow came to affect that relationship. I am proud of the work that I did in using imagery and painting a picture through words because I feel that it added a lot to my writing and is one of the aspects of this piece that are most engaging. In the future I would like to work more on my structure, because I feel this piece was made up of a lot of different pieces that didn’t quite go together, but I forced them to, and next time I would like to make the story more fluid.

Advanced Essay:

An old and scratchy voice yelled to me from afar. I turned around, confused as to what I had just heard. A familiar face poked its head out of a car. “You boy, come here, let me show you what I have here for you!” I approached with caution, still startled by the voice that had come out of nowhere. On the corner of the street stood a small car, almost miniature, with a dark blue coat, it was shining from the glare of the sun that bore down upon it. I staggered towards the vehicle, looked through the gaping window to see my father and the woman to which the familiar voice had come from. Now knowing that I could trust the owners of this machine, I grasped the latch to the door and stepped in. Immediately I felt a cool blast of air pour onto my face, and a cold metal object thrown into my lap. I was unsure as to what it was until I was able to take a closer look at it. A metal man lay in my lap, staring up blankly into my eyes, carrying little to no emotion on his face, though he looked curious. He looked as though he was looking through my eyes and into my past, present, and future, though he just sat there, emotionless, worthless. I lay out his flat body in my arms, grasping him, wondering what use he was to me. Why should I care?

The metal man lay on the wall with a look of curiosity on his face. His body thin and bony, easily breakable, so thin in fact that you could see the outline of each and every crevasse in his body. Each one of his limbs hung lifelessly from his torso as if he were a skeleton hanging dead from above. His chest was like a washboard that could be played as a musical instrument. His left arm dangled towards his side lifelessly gripping a guitar that looked like it would be played in a rock and roll band, though it hasn’t been touched for a long time. A charm is wrapped around his neck clinging closely to his skin. A column of ridges peaked out of his face in the place where his nose would be, seemingly connecting his round skeleton eyes to his wide open mouth. The lifelessness that fills him seemed to be the same that might fill a robot, an inhuman metal contraption that sits upon the wall until it is needed. His metal seemed beaten and worn, covered with dents and rust, but through the battered and mangled body that lies there are intricate designs carved into each limb, resembling starry skies and gusts of wind. He stares straight forwards as if he is looking right at you, but you know that he can’t see anything. The metal man is made of scraps, but seem to be something new, a masterpiece depicting a man with an extensive story to tell. He reminded me of her. The old lady who once thought of me. Every time I stared at the corpse of a man strung up on my wall, I was filled with the sight of her face, gleaming at me, hammering the image of her into my mind. It made me happy, knowing there was someone in this overwhelming population who cared enough about me to make a special connection with me.

It hit me all at once, a wave of confusion washing over my entire body. I heard her say the words, but I was unable to comprehend their meaning, each word translated into a foreign language, something that made complete sense, but only sounded like jibberish to me. “I’m leaving on a trip,” she began in a mild tone, “to the middle east, to help the refugees from Syria, to provide them with the many comforts that they need.” Her words confused me, I wanted to believe it wasn’t true, even though I knew every word was spoken with complete sincerity. I didn’t want to believe that she was leaving to such a dangerous place all on her own. I tried to make up excuses in my head: Maybe she just is just fooling with us, she knows that someone of her age wouldn’t make it in that part of world. Maybe she will change her mind once she realizes the mistake she is making. But deep down I knew she wasn’t going to change her mind, and she knew that she wasn’t making any mistake. This was where she was meant to go, and there was nothing I could do to stop her. At this moment I felt completely alone. And I was. I didn’t see her again after that moment, and I continually ask myself: Will I ever again? Was I the one worth leaving?

I never really appreciated her until she left me, and I will always regret not telling her how I feel. The lack of time that I had is something that keeps spinning around in my head, the idea that there may have been another moment, and there may have been another time where I could see her. Every time I now look at the lifeless figure that hangs on the wall I think of her, and how I might see her again someday.

    The beauty in both terror and reality

Is it wrong to find pleasure in a place of torment? Those nostalgic feelings that continue to grow on you over the years The happiness. Then there's those dark memories. The ones you don’t want to go back to but at the same time, can’t wait to find someone who share similar experiences. Fears is what led me to these unexpected situations. It is what drew me closer to darkness. The horror movies, the video games, the websites, seeing some messed up things had brang me so much joy as a kid. It was all fun and games until the night crept in. When everything turns off and the only light you  had was the moon but even that wasn’t strong enough to save you from the horrors that haunt you. The terrors that made you feel alone and i'm not talking actually alone. The type of loneliness you have when you're the weakest one in the room. I had quite a few lovely experiences with darkness himself. I hope to not see him again. 


Friday night, at 7:30pm. My parents are downstairs so I can watch wrestling on the tv in their room. While i'm downstairs, I stared at the staircase. All I saw was a big shadow that was coming from the upstairs, pure darkness. I  walk up the stairs, step by step very cautiously and slowly the light that once guided me, faded to black. I see a painting in the far distance. Everytime I step a little bit closer to it, another human figure will appear on the painting. I examined the picture and remember the man in the white tank top all the way on the side of the painting. It creeped me out and gave me these chills so I turned around in the direction of my parents room. Still in a darkness. 

Walking into my parents room, I quickly turned on the light and then the tv. The room had this safezone feeling with it’s warm colors that laid on me. I changed the channel to the CW where “Friday Night Smackdown!” came on and laid on the bed. Though the room light was on, the hallway was still pitch black. The darkness wasn't pleasant. It was the type of darkness that a kid would get lost in. Though I was disturbed by it, I was also curious. I would take a walk in the darkest place on earth. I may not of been able to see with my earthly eyes but I can see anything with my conscious  that has a mind of its own. Though I was watching my favorite show, the hallway seemed more interesting. Every 5 minutes, I would stare at it. Seeing patterns and shadow, the hallway was speaking to me. It revealed that painting of the dancing spirits to me. Even with the darkness, the painting felt so vivid.  I went back to watching tv. The hallway tone started to get louder as I tried to ignore it. It got to the point that I just had to turn around and look. This time I look, I saw one of the figures from the painting. The man in the white tank top was standing there in the hallway. He was covered in the darkness but his white tank top wasn't. His white tank top is what led my eyes. He never looked at me. I felt like he knew I was there but he just kept staring to the left where my bedroom was. It was like he was watching something in there. As I continue to stare, I start to notice gunshot wounds on his shirt. Each one having a black cherry hole with red blood slithering through the white material of his shirt. He had very strong arms. Those type of arms that just symbolized strength and agony. A working man arm. 

He had this scent about him that just made him bigger than he appear. It wasn’t natural at all. He just shifted through the hall way and stop in front of my bedroom. He just stood there. I blinked and he was gone and so was the darkness.

That night, changed my whole view on ghosts and spirits. I thought Id freak out if that ever happen. It felt like someone stitched my clothes to the bed so I wouldn't move. I was such a shy kid that I didn't even want to breath loudly for the man to hear me. I wasn't afraid. I had fear but it was non existent that night. I never told anybody about that because I easily forgotten about it. It felt normal for the two worlds of living and dead to be together. It felt like the human form of darkness. 

Around that same year, I had another experience with the darkness. This time It was late at night. I went to bed that night like any other night. I was just laying down with my blanket over me, starring at the ceiling. My light was off and my door was wide open. I always hated my door being open. Something kept me up all night. It was like my mind was just racing with so many thoughts of going to sleep and never waking back up. I was scared of the darkness that night. I just kept staring at the ceiling that was lighting up from the bright tv that was on. I kept dozing off to sleep but I didn’t want to. I was afraid of having a nightmare because of all the scary things that wrapped my mind around them. I had no controlling over what I was thinking so I just decided to try and stay up. I just remember staring at the ceiling and then not hearing the tv no more. I try turning my head at it, thinking maybe i put it on mute, but I couldn’t. In fact, I couldn’t move none of my body. It was like a huge weight was just laying on top of me. Like a very strong man or something. I thought if I scream maybe my parents would hear me but I couldn’t. I had no control over my mouth. It was like something had its claws over my hand and its fingers in my mouth because it was hard to breath. I couldn’t move anything on my body but my eyes and man were they wondering. I just kept looking around and around. All i saw was darkness from the hallway. Every time a scene will change from television, a new shadow would appear in front of my door. Making everything go black. So much darkness danced in front of me. Like a show full of ghost and one of them just layed on top of me with its hand on my neck and mouth on mines. I wasn’t myself. I didn’t want to close my eyes. I didn’t want to see those thoughts come to life but they did. They stayed their, one getting closer to my bed and then the other. It was like my soul wanted to up lift itself and run to the light. With all that going on, everything just suddenly stopped. It was all back to normal.

That night felt like a long show that I was being forced to watch. When I think about , I imagine cold dirty hands grabbing on my upper arms. I feel a nasty long black tongue going down my throat to taste my vocal cords. That experience was freaky and gave me a new concept of darkness. How darkness can make someone feel so weak. This time felt like the physical form of darkness.

Then there was the outter body experience I had around the same age. The main difference is that this time, it was after dawn. I was sleeping down stairs that night. I’m on one couch and my sister is on the other. I woke up that morning, and just stared at her for a second. The sun gave off this golden light through the house. It made everything feel so alive. I got up and walked a few steps forward just to turn around and saw myself laying on the couch, sleep. It almost took the life out of me. I was up and walking but at the same time, I never left that couch. I couldn’t speak but I don’t think I even thought of spoken. It was like simple logic just left my body as fast as I did. Maybe I was dead I thought but my body laying there was breathing. I then thought that maybe it was my soul or subconscious. Nothing was making sense until the next weird thing happen. My full sight just changed into this picture of Abraham Lincoln. It was a very old picture. It made me wonder even more because Abraham Lincoln died on my birthday. It was a very gritty yet real picture of him. The presence of it got into my thoughts and try to choke me. The spirit of the painting swayed a way into the publes of my eyes and stabbed a chain in them so I wouldn’t look away. His lips were shut like they never opened for a thousand years. He stared deeply into my body and frozen my heart for me. Then the picture moved and so did what I was viewing. It was now a picture of Abraham Lincoln’s Skeleton. The vivid colors cause by lack of flesh, made the picture even more of mystery. I didn’t want my heart to beat while all of this was happening. I didn’t want any sign of life to remind me of what set me apart from what I was experiencing. I didn’t want the darkness to know that I was still alive. I just wanted to dance with it. I wanted to be friends with the black rainbow because both me and it experience something in common. No one ever caring to truly understand the works of something that’s not like them. Something that is only celebrated by those who learn to simply accept it.

I may lived through those beautiful experiences with black. Just promise me that you will never go home as I, myself, fade to black.

My goal in this essay is to show the readers that trying new things and going a little out of your comfort zone isn’t always so bad. Sometimes in order to realize and appreciate certain things you have to go through uncomfortable situations.

Advanced Essay -

“Happy Birthday to you” is all I heard when I woke up that morning, my eyes were still closed as I turned to the other side facing the wall not wanting to be bothered. I almost forgot it was my birthday, but when my mom continued singing, my eyes opened so wide you could see my pupils. As I turned to the other side to face my mom our eyes interlocked, we were looking into each others big dark brown eyes while she sang happy birthday and handed me warm delicious pancakes that smelled like brownies. I had a bright white smile and a really crusty face but I didn’t care it was my day. I was finally turning a year older “Get dressed I have a surprise for you” is all I heard with a sweet and mellow voice. I was anxious. What could it possibly be? I wanted a new phone so maybe that’s what it was! I hopped out of bed so quick my mom could feel the wind as I ran past her to go to the bathroom to turn the shower on.

Everyone’s dressed, except my mom. “Hurry!, Hurry! I said with a forcing and loud tone, you can see the annoyance on my mom’s face as she quickly continues to get ready. What could this surprise possibly be? I hated surprises so much! I hated them just as much as dogs hate baths. Ten minutes passed, Twenty minutes passed and even thirty minutes passed and I was STILL waiting on my mom. I gave up! My heart is beating extra fast and my mind is racing. I bugged her and bugged her and she never gave in.

The last thing I thought the surprise was is painting a picture. “Painting with a twist” to be exact. My mom knew I didn’t like to paint! So how dare she even consider taking me to this small, uncomfortable place on MY birthday. I was angry. Blood, sweat and tears angry but I smiled. I smiled because I didn’t want my mom to think I was selfish, I smiled because I didn’t want her to think I didn’t appreciate it, I smiled, but I wasn’t happy. Trying new things was always hard for me to do especially if I knew I wasn’t the best at it and it wasn’t in my comfort zone. I didn’t want to embarrass myself and walk out with the worst painting. I was also afraid of what other people thought and I tend to compare myself to others. It was my birthday so I was already going to be the center of attention so that on top of a horrible painting was just not a good mix.

We walked in and I put an old black apron on that had paint stains, I didn’t want to get any paint on my new fresh clothes. The director told us it wasn’t going to be hard and all we had to do was follow directions. She was old, with wrinkled pale skin, dark brown hair and tiny glasses. Of course she could easily say follow directions, she’s been doing this all her life. In my head, it didn’t matter if I followed directions or not I could NOT draw. I was staring at the blank white canvas as the director handed me these bright beautiful colors on a plate, big to small paint brushes that my hand held on tight to, and a big cup of water for the brushes. My mind was still racing, and my stomach began feeling uneasy.

As we waited for everyone to arrive, I just started to think about how the night would end.” Would I end up with the worst painting in the group”, “Would I embarrass myself?” Just all these negatives thoughts running through my mind as I was still sitting on a old wooden brown stool with one of it’s legs missing just. Finally, it was time to paint this beautiful African piece that I thought was going to be a disaster. The director began to show us the first step, all I could remember is each time she went back and painted, it looked harder and harder. Trying to keep up step by step, dipping my paint brushes in the paint as I colored the greenish blue background on this piece, hands shaking, nothing but silence in the room, and my mind telling me not to mess up.

As I kept painting, the colors became brighter on the page, my vision became clearer and my painting wasn’t so bad. I followed directions and made it into my own little creation. This surprise wasn’t bad after all. There was music blasting, snacks being handed out, laughter and enjoyment from everyone that was there. The environment is what made my painting so beautiful, the ideas I had in my head plus following the steps is what made my painting so beautiful, it came from my heart and that’s what made it beautiful. Some may say that they don’t like my painting but the red,blue and green colors that filled the canvas are beauty in my eyes and beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Most importantly, I tried something new and I got over my fear of being embarrassed in front of others. I’m learning in life in order to grow, one will have to take risk, so as I grew one year older I became a little more wiser.

‘’ What’s your name ‘’ ? The teacher said ‘’My name is Fatoumata”. This is how it all began in 6th grade. My name was difficult for many people because it was a name that nobody was used to. It was the first day of school I was so excited. I had my navy blue skirt with my attached ribbon , a navy blue shirt and my gold glittery flats. My hair was braided nicely with colorful beads. I was finally in middle school. I get in the car and my dad drives me to school. We stop by dunkin donuts and got breakfast. I gave him a big kiss and I’m off on my way to school. I walk down the steps and go down to the cafeteria. Everyone was there with their parents smiling giving kisses and hugs out to their parents. I was cheesing so hard because I was finally a 6th grader. The breakfast line was so long it was like a herd of cows. I waited in line and finally I got my warm hot pocket. I put my lunch number pin in and went to go find a seat. Every table was crowded. I devoured that hot pocket in seconds , that was the only school food I liked. 2 girls came my way. They were staring at if I were beyonce. They looked and looked and finally said something. I was relieved.

‘’ What’s your name ‘’? ‘’ My name is Fatoumata’’ ‘’ Could you say it again ? ‘’ Fatoumata” ‘’ Fatomatao”? I hated my name so bad. ‘’ What’s so wrong with my name ? ‘’ It’s just a name that sounds weird. ‘’ ‘’ How is it weird ‘’ . I was so upset but I didn’t want to ruin my day with a silly joke like that. I walked up the steps and waited outside my homeroom. The teacher came out the classroom and said ‘’Good Morning students’’ “ Good morning Ms.Shannon we all said. We all walked in the classroom and we all sat down in our little blue chairs with our name on it. Ms. Shannon introduced herself and we played a few games. The name game was next and I was very nervous. I hated the name game it was the worst game that was ever invented. When you’re young you’re mean so much to you but it was the opposite for me. Whenever I say my name people always question , Where are you from ? Where are your family from? Do you speak a different language? These questions get on my nerves so much. I hated to say my name out aloud because the classroom would be so quiet and all the attention would be on me. We would have people in the corner laughing, people sending text messages , people whispering. How could I ever love my name ? I was next I was shaking I wasn’t ready to say my name I was too embarrassed. I was next it was my turn , I got up and the whole class was looking at me. My name is Fat -ou mata. “Your name is really pretty’’. I was so surprised. ‘’ What did you say? ] ‘’ I like your name do you like your name ? ‘’ No I hate my name so bad. ( Bell rings) . ‘’ We will get to the rest of the names tomorrow have a great day’’. I was still in shocked that somebody actually liked my name. ‘’ Hey Fatoumata ‘’ “How is my name so easy for you to say”? ( giggles) “My name is Shakiya by the way and it’s really pretty for a pretty girl like you”. ‘’ Why don’t you like your name? “I wish I could have a name that wasn’t known so I could have been unique just like you.

I wished my mom had gave me a name that was so easy to pronounce or a name that was known. All my life I had to repeat my name about 300 times in a day I hated it so bad. Everybody use to tell me I love your name I just didn’t see anything to like. It was a bunch of letters that people could never get. When I was in middle school people randomly gave me nicknames. Nicknames that cutted my name out of it. I was okay with it in the beginning but then I realize that it wasn’t my name and it wasn’t who I am. I started to realize that I loved my name after a while. I was very insecure about my name because I let people criticism get to me but now it represent who I am and I would never want to change my name ever again. I finally accepted myself and my name it took quite some time. My name was a real challenge to others because it was name that nobody was use to. There’s no a lot of Fatoumata in our world and i’m very happy to be one of them. In my family history i’m the only Fatoumata in the family.

‘’ Fatmaata could you come sit down’’. ( Class laughing) ‘’ Whats funny?’’ ‘’ The teacher pronounces your name way wrong and it was hilarious’’ ‘’ I don’t see anything hilarious it’s a couple of words that she can’t put together’’? ‘’ Ms. Shannon I might not be proud of my name but that’s not how you say it it’s Fatoumata’’ ‘’ Sweetie your name is a name that i’m not familiar with’’ ‘’ Well get familiar with it because I won’t respond to Fat Fat or Mata or Fatou it’s not my name my name is Fatoumata’’. ( Applause) I was shocked .I never cared what people called me only if it wasn’t Fatoumata. That’s when I knew I actually did like my name I just hated that it took people years and years to finally get my name correctly. My name is Fatoumata and i’m very proud to say that’s who I am. I won’t be able to change my name because of the amount. I’m starting to love my name and feeling comfortable with saying my name. Its who I am.

Advanced Essay #1 Falling Down

In my journal this year, I wrote that I sometimes struggle to get a story going. However, I overcame this by simply venting non-stop, and continuing to write even if I was not sure how it would relate to the theme of my essay. This allowed me to choose from a lot of content and organize it, which is one of the strong qualities I have and wrote about in my journal. Furthermore, to strengthen my essay I used some descriptive writing, which I am usually hesitant to do because I don’t feel that I sound deep. I am proud of the simile I created, using the elevator to describe how I felt. I want to be able to write more like this in the future, as well as other lines that were significant in my analysis. The most critical area for improvement I see when I read through is my scene that starts of the essay. I want to become a better story teller, so that the story is not only useful for my analysis but so it can hook the reader and they will understand even better.

I popped the cap off the side of the gun and twisted the knob on the faucet. Once the gun was filled, we ran out to the patio where a thick burst of heat hit our faces. We stepped outside and took our shoes off. The tile was warm on our feet so we squirted them with my water gun. It was the middle of the summer and we were living our eleven year old summer carefree. We walked to the edge of the patio. It was around a twenty foot drop to the bricks below, and the same distance between us and the side window of a bank.
“I bet you won’t shoot the window with your gun” I said.
“Are you sure?” said Phil. He angled the gun up and yanked the trigger down. GUSH! The water soared through the air and smacked the window. THUD! We ducked below the edge of the patio.
“Holy Shiitake” I said. “You are a maniac. If they catch us who knows what will happen.”
“I didn’t think the gun could reach. I’m Sorry.”
At the time, spraying a water gun at a window seemed so scary and out of line. I still don’t think it is a good idea, but it is interesting to see how my opinions on what is acceptable and what is not has changed. Today I feel more willing to venture into danger than when I was younger, and things seemed so crazy and scary they were unimaginable. Is it because I was brainwashed by my parents as a child and did not form my own opinions on what is bad or not until later? Maybe after going through enough dangerous things, the world has made me more numb to a lot today, and it seems normal.
I still feel I have a grip on right and wrong, but it seems to be changing as well. It is as if the bar is firmly in my hand, but I am in an up elevator so it rises regardless. I find myself going to boundries I did not even know were pushed yet. When I look back to the old me, I clearly remember not believing my future would hold what it does now. Am I falling into a trap of bad behavior, and my mind is too convoluted with changing ideas to see the immorality in my actions? I can justify most of it now, but before I could prove why it was wrong. An old history teacher once told my class a quote that I always knew was accurate, but I can now see in full effect.
Mr John said, “Boring people are the most dangerous people.” I see this conclusively in my life from the people around me and sometimes even myself. I am still a person with strong values. I want to be as positive as possible so I can spread happiness around me. However we all commit bad deeds, and sometimes it is because we have to, but other times it is because we are just looking for a thrill, and think what we are doing is cool. I try not to let this mindset control me and block out all negative peer pressure. When I want to I definitely can, but it is not always easy to remember in the moment that what you are doing is losing your innocence.